A Pair of Old Fitting Pants and Other Dire Hideous Clothes
by bossycontrolfreak
Summary: Some unfortunate events that happen to noble people are recorded, and they are considered tragedies. The ones that happen to less likeable and just noble enough people go by unquestioned, unnoticed, unrecorded. Because no one believes they're a tragedy. They believe they're called justice. [The story of what happened between Count Olaf, Kit Snicket and La Forza Del Destino]
1. Eight Months, two weeks, three days bef

If you've read love stories, then you will be familiar with the notion of love at first sight. If you _are_ looking for a story that reinforces that notion, with sticky sweet moments and heartbreaks undone, then this is not the story for you to read. In this story there is no love at first sight. Only watching. With a thousand, and a single eye.

He had watched her intently, without a hint of shame or remorse. He had watched her without meaning to. He had watched her when she _crinkled_ her nose as she read to keep her glasses from falling. He had watched her curl her lips into the tiniest smile when she came across a particularly witty line of reading (though he never cared to know which were the lines, what was the book). He had watched her walk from hall to hall, her pony tail bouncing and swishing and swirling from side to side. He had watched her slip notes, and he had watched her hide it by making an innocent by passer trip on her left foot. He'd found all of it charming, but that most of all.

She had watched him too, though not for half as long. She had watched him when he picked his teeth with his bare fingernails after a particularly sticky meal. She had watched him _crackle_ pages just to toss paper balls around (she had never wanted to know what pages had been torn). She had watched him _stomp_ from hall to hall, always clutching scripts filled with scribbles and reciting lines, his arms and hands flicking and swatting about. That she'd found lightly annoying, but more amusing than most.

As fate would have it, they were bound to catch each other on the watch. It happened in the library, as they sat an appropriate number of stools and one table away. There was no great flare to it, no suddenly leaping into each other's arms in love at first sight. Just an instant, a glance that said 'I have been watching you, and I know you have been watching me'. One of the two had been meaning for it, counted the stools and chose the table. But _which one_?

Despite the meticulous planning on one side and admittedly foolish daydreaming on the other, there wasn't much after the glance. For moments, neither could think of a thing to say. There was no easy or _un-awkward_ way to say how much he'd enjoyed the swish and swoosh of her ponytail, just as there was no pleasant or polite way to say just how disgusting she found his teeth picking.

"Aren't you in my brother's class?" she asked at last, being clever enough to leave the word 'little' out of the sentence. "Which one?" a curled smirk twisted its way up his lips (and as much as it surprised her, it wasn't an unpleasant one). He was clever enough to make it unclear whether he meant which brother or which class (though the answer to both were fairly obvious) in faint hopes to stretch the conversation, much like a rubber band, until it bended or snapped.

"The one you're failing to attend now" she responded sharply, her left eyebrow lifted. "I am?" the left half of his one eyebrow lifted too. "You must be. I'd never seen _you_ around here at this hour" she tilted her head and side eyed him in a most peculiar way, unashamed to admit she knew his hours, but playful enough to hint she didn't _really_ care for them. "Perceptive" he full on grinned then, seemingly stretching himself taller and taller with every word. Confidence works like that. So do cockiness and conceitedness. "Irresponsible" she retorted, smiling a sly smile of her own.

 _Shush_! Came from the librarian's desk, and both returned to their respective nose crinkling and page crackling. "You better _not_ be here tomorrow" she whispered against her best behaviour an interest (there were few places and things she respected as much as a library the peace and quiet).

His whole eyebrow rose instantly as he looked up to, and he gave up paper tearing so suddenly it made a rough noise. "And why's that?".

"You may find out if you go to the right class". "There is only _one_ right class to be at tomorrow" he half huffed half snorted. "Is there?". "You're clearly perceptive enough to know there _is_ ".

"Care to give a clue?" she wiggled her eyebrows and twitched her mouth in the most intriguing expression so far invented. "I thought you were the one riddling _me_ " he did the same face, though not half as well. "Maybe our riddles will collide", she thought it best to ignore how incorrectly he'd used the verb riddle. He smirked again, their stares fixed on each other. "The only good class is the one I'm _on top of_ " he said, fairly pleased, leaning back on his stool. "Can't think of one" she said and looked away, hiding an even rarer grim behind her book.


	2. Eight months, 2 weeks, 2 days before

It was five o-five when several students walked into the drama classroom to find the _strangest_ of sights: Olaf sitting smugly in the tallest stand, almost sprawled across it, with his long legs stretched and his even longer feet shamelessly placed on top of it, rather than by the floor. In his current position, he occupied the space that would've otherwise fit at least other three other people, but he didn't seem to care.

This was _the_ one class where the oddity of the sight wasn't that Olaf had showed on time (not to say early or at all), nor was it odd to find him smiling smugly and taking up other people's space. What truly made it so strange and surprising was that this was the one class where they had all come to learn he would never, _ever_ , sit quietly or in the **back**. Nobody said a word to him or murmured about it, even if their stare lingered on him for just an instant as they scattered themselves on the stands.

They were all too thrilled and entertained with the notion of him, for once, _not_ trying to hoard the lesson to wonder why exactly that was. Even he had started to ponder upon it as the clock ticked five o-eight, and the stands looked half empty but were as full of his irritating schoolfellows as they were bound to be for the day. Trying his best to ignore their mumbling, he let his eyes travel from his fingernails to the entrance frame in an incessant flickering.

At five o-nine, he had started to feel a little silly. Idiotic was more like it. Why was he preparing this entrance at all? There was a fair chance she wouldn't show. There was a fair chance she had been just _trying_ to appear interesting yesterday, he thought. Yes, that made sense. He too would've tried to make himself interesting if he were talking to himself.

How could he know, anyway? Before that he'd only ever seen her, not _talked_ to her. Maybe she was one of those annoying girls who thought cooking class or the chess club or the astronomy club or, god forbid, the _book_ club were more interesting than the theatre. Maybe she was sitting there, waiting for him to arrive, thinking she was oh so pretty and oh so captivating that he would. He almost smirked, scrubbing a speck of dirt off his thumb nail.

The thought – _considering she remembers our conversation at all_ – nearly crossed his mind, but he flicked it away as one would a very bothersome mosquito before it bites. Though we all know no matter how much you flick them away, it doesn't take long before they come buzzing back. (She _was_ that pretty and that captivating. But then again, in his own mind, so was he).

At five o-ten, the thought nearly stung him, but Mr. Du-Pits made his own entrance, and it finally flew away, leaving him alone with the same conviction that drew him to that very class three times a week: the theatre. He hadn't shown early or put on his cleanest version of the uniform for some _girl_. He was doing as he did three times a week, no more and no less. And he'd sat there because he fancied it. - Only he _had_ , and even if he sat just as still and kept his eyes on his fingernails as _she_ strode behind the teacher, her pony tail swooshing along, he was only glad he had. Glad and _smugger_. Glad and _smirkier_.

"Good evening, my young aspiring actors, playwrights, and whatever else needs doing around a stage" Mr. Du-Pits announced himself merrily, galloping his way to the stage. Even he was taken aback not to find Olaf sitting in the strand version of front and centre, ready to boost in flattery and dialogue at anything he had to say. He glanced around to find him, and tried his hardest not to smile when he saw his new choice of seat– not only the students could hope for a pleasant chance to lead the class.

"Today makes for an interesting lesson" he went on, and thought he was referring to everything _but_ the young lady by his side, most eyes were on her. Hers, however, were on the back of the strands. She too was smugly, though definitely less _smirkily_ , looking at him. He sat a little straighter, with his eyebrow lifted a little higher. Her chin was well up, and she stood larger than life with her hands neatly clasped together. So he _had_ been waiting for her to show. So she _had_ surprised him after all. _Good_.

" _This_ is erm," Mr. Du-Pits announced her proudly, "the remarkable student who due to her scholar merits has been approved to assist me this year." at the words, an embarrassed little brother sitting by the middle row shrunk in his shoulders. "We've fooled around long enough, and it's time to get started on this year's production." Mr. Du-Pits clasped his hands together, and headed for his attache case. "Introduce yourself girl, we haven't all evening!"

"I was a young girl, an only child", she began. "Yes, a green child". Her hands unclasped, and her face started to shift. Her eyes grew shyer, hungrier. "I lived with a widowed father in the draughty quarters in the centre of an army barrack. I had no relations, no friends, no companions" At the word friends she turned to _him._ And he found himself leaning forwards, attentive.

"I knew that on the other side of the barrack wall people were living joyous and exciting lives. And because that life was beyond my reach, I had to have it" her jaw stiffened, and she melted into bittersweet honey. Not even the one younger brother seemed to recognize her. There was no mumbling, no murmuring, no foot tapping and not one of those other rude things people do when they're not paying attention. The room was hers. Even Mr. Du-Pits, who had thought of her no more than as a promising secretary, stood still, watching. And she kept looking to the back of the strands.

"And _you_ were my guide around that world because _you_ had experienced it in every extreme. I relished that experience through you, my surrogate out there. All those things I was ravenous to learn, that no one had _any_ suspicion I was hearing, that _no_ green girl ought to hear, I heard it all from _you_ , my mentor. _You_ were my tutor in all the delights and excesses and squalor I might never have known. And I experienced them all through you – in blushing secrecy, in _absolute safety_ ".

It took a moment for everybody to realize she was finished, as she shifted back into herself and clasped her hands once more. "Kit Snicket" she announced. Then came applause from almost every seat. Not thunderous or scandalous, but respectful. Mr. Du-Pits clapped as well, pleasantly surprised, peering at her from behind his glasses, sheets of paper between his arm and armpit.

And that was _all_ she had been seeking. If she was to do this, _drama_ , she was to do it well. Well enough to not be questioned or talked back to. Well enough to be more than 'fetch me this' and 'staple that'. Well enough to proudly look at the **most** demanding student in the class, with his single eyebrow and his glimmering eyes, in the eye and find that even if he was the only one not applauding, his stare was the most reverential of them all.

After that, she was happy to slink back into her merely _assisting_ role. She was happy to sit and take notes. She was happy to pace around as the others pulled faces at each other in a sort of warm up that wasn't entirely to her taste. She was somewhat happier to listen at the selection of scripts, particularly those of the more poetic kind, that were being suggested for the production and she was happiest to do it all throwing a mischievous glance at him every now and then. Every single time he was already looking back, and pulled even more exaggerate faces and suggested plays with roles he seemed to think he was more fit for, even if she wasn't one to tell.

Soon enough, it was seven sharp. Everyone headed straight from their beloved drama classroom to their equally beloved cafeteria for supper. Kit Snicket rushed, rather than headed, because at six fifty-nine she had decided she would not be in the mood, at seven, to hear a word from her little brother, who had witnessed the whole thing and frowned enough for her to know that he wasn't all too happy with it.

Well, perhaps she wouldn't mind _hearing_ it as much as she would mind the endless teasing and arguing that would come when she brought up his own Bestowing, Erratic, Amicable, Terrific, Rich, Incredible, Clear and Enviable reasons to sign up for drama class himself. As much as she loved him, he could be both awfully touchy and awfully sentimental about them, as he was about many things- which come think about it did seem to align with this new interest of his.

Hidden among the growing crowd, she quietly collected her portion of Salmon Florentine and sat at a cornered table, not wanting to be found. She thickened her camouflage with pages of William Allingham, taking a few bites in between. She thought she'd been found by the familiar shape of her older brother, and paid no mind to his unusually tentative steps back and forth the seat in front of hers, until they turned into the unfamiliar _clank_ of a half empty tray being carelessly placed, and a pair of long, bony hands in front of it as the figure leaned, towering over her.

"Who knew you had it in you, _Kit Snicket_ " Olaf's wheezy voice greeted her as she looked up to a grinning face, half of his eyebrow daringly raised.

"It was a simple enough riddle" she played along, a smile twitching on the edge of her lips but not _quite_ out yet.

"I don't mean the _riddling_ " he stretched the last word in a somewhat ridiculing tone, "I mean _performing_ ".

"I prefer the former" she titled her head. "Though I might've made it far too easy" Ah, it was out now. Small, but certainly out.

The smile was good enough for him to sit down, instinctively put his feet up and let out a little snort, raising half his eyebrow once again. "You don't expect me to think there was an _actual_ riddle."

"Who knew you had it in you to solve it" she curled her already so little smile into a littler, playful sneer.

His own grin grew larger, as he munched a mouthful of his own portion. Truth be told he _despised_ the stuff, but it was either this or turning in bed all night in hunger. And it gave him good enough of an excuse to linger. So he munched, munched, munched.

"Believe it or not" munch, munch, munch. Sauce splattered here, pasta bits flying off there. "I _do_. My talents expand far beyond the theatrical arts and my extreme good looks" he added, much to the irony of his sauce dripping chin.

Setting her own tray aside, she leaned into him from across his _shoes_. His grin shrunk lightly, for the gleam of his stare was almost as _gleamy_ as it had been on stage, and he suddenly felt compelled to stop his arrogant munching and once again, devote her all his attention. He put his feet down. She leaned a little closer, he did too. They were a whisper away.

"Prove it."

"How?"

"Answer the _one_ question and you may find out"

"What?"

"Well, _young lady_. Have you been good to your mother?"

"The question is, has _she_ been good to me?"


	3. Eight Months, two weeks, one day before

She stood idly by the doorframe, holding her breath. Count to ten, they'd taught her. And when you're done counting to ten, count to twenty. And then to thirty and to forty, until you're surprised with how high you've managed to count without having a sound, _any_ sound, interrupt you. Then you'll know it's safe to make your way through.

And so she did. She counted to eighty four, and then to one hundred and twenty seven, and then to two hundred thirty five. That should have made almost four minutes, which was exactly how long it took to tiptoe her way from her dormitory to the back of the auditorium, if she sprinted rather than walked.

She tiptoed better with no shoes on, but figured it would be quite cold outside and suddenly felt far too fond of her socks as to stain them. So she slipped her quietest slippers, heard a rustle by the window (counted to seventy seven, just to be sure it _had_ been just the wind) and darted outside.

She did not dare light her way. She tiptoed in the dark, attentive for his footsteps. It would be a lie to say she didn't feel, for just the shortest moment, disappointed not to find his shadowy figure hidden among the many of such a shadowy spot. She had been, after all, forty four seconds late.

And it would also be a lie to say she did not feel, just for the shortest moment, impressed, when she felt his long, colds finger tap on her shoulder. _He didn't make a sound._ Not an approaching stomp, a pip, or a squeak. Not a creak or a faint leap. Had she been any less skilled herself, she would have gasped. Or jumped. Or gasped and jumped. Instead, she said "You are forty seven seconds late."

"Forty seven seconds are hardly a dramatic entrance, Kit Snicket. I would even say I was twenty nine minutes thirteen seconds early" he responded smugly, his eyes glimmering in the dark. At this point, it had begun to seem to her that smug was the **only** tone he knew. She could almost hear the smile that came with it, and she couldn't say she was too keen of it.

"Then you're in luck, _O_ " she remarked on the vowel, letting him know protocol was not to be forgotten or skipped "as I would have left in precisely thirteen seconds. Eight now. Regardless, I appreciate you coming" she admitted, with slight _thuds_ in between.

 _Mental note: vegetable fueled flashlights do not work as quickly, or well, as regular ones. Do not use again_. Finally, a dim, green light made itself present, and she could have a better look at him. It seemed incredible that his hair could get even messier, and that he stood as nonchalant as ever. Without squinting at the flashlight, or looking in any way less awake than he did during supper.

"It better not have been for nothing, _K_ " he grunted, hinting that even though he looked as sharp as he did at any other time of the day, he would _much_ rather be in bed. And he dragged the last consonant as well, letting her know he didn't care for protocol and was rather annoyed that she insisted on using it at such an unseemly hour. The sight of her without her glasses was rather odd, but he couldn't say he disliked it. Her nose looked better that way, more upturned. And her eyes were wider. Livelier. More awake.

"I hope it isn't. I truly do. But ultimately, it is up to you", she responded. At this point, it had begun to seem to him that she enjoyed dragging people out of bed in the middle of the night and overcomplicating conversation for the sake of histrionics. Bothersome as it would seem, he was willing to indulge. "How?"

"Very simple. You must tell me if you are willing to trust me, or not. I am inclined to believe you are and you already do, since you are standing here. But then again, you may not. Curiosity is the lust of the mind, yet merely being lewd is never any good."

Her use of the word 'lewd' caused him to chuckle lightly. It was a childish chuckle that just slipped, and he gulped to try and cover it up. She was being far too serious for him to try and turn the moment into more of a comedic skit. He wouldn't want to spoil it. Sometimes the veiled fellowship's duties got on his nerves, but he could appreciate the gravitas of the whole affair. "If I say I do, will you just say whatever it is you want to say?"

"Only if you mean it."

"I mean it. You're seeing me in my pajamas," he _lip serviced_ , opening his arms and glancing down. There lied the burden of being gifted. Couldn't let a single opportunity pass him by! Now it was her who couldn't help chuckling. Those _were_ ridiculous pajamas.

No. She couldn't afford chuckling. Not with the situation and message in hand. He had to _mean it_. The chuckle had to come and go as quickly as her flashlight's incessant flicker, and it dragged his smile along.

"I was given a task, and I need an associate to complete it. It's a task I dare not involve L or J in."

"And you're daring to involve _me_? We've barely met."

"I am deciding to trust you, Olaf. And I'm asking for your trust in return. You _are_ on top of the class that matters for this task, and you could meet me without getting caught. Even after I waited forty seven seconds just to see if I could catch you myself. I needn't know much else."

Penny dropped. Riddle solved! She _had_ been trying him. All this library and midnight meeting nonsense had just been her dipping her toes in the water, making sure it was fit to dive in for a swim. He should be more annoyed by it. Really, he should be. Typical volunteer. They couldn't just _do_ whatever needed doing. No. They had to turn it into Victorian, Elizabethan, or whatever fiction and slap a poem on it.

Except he was an actor, so he wasn't annoyed, not really. Instead he was … proud? No, not proud. Flattered? No. Of course he was good enough to not get caught. That was 'spy one-o-one'. And of course he was on top of drama class. _It was innate_. Intrigued was more like it. Satisfied.

"Fine. I trust you back, Kit Snicket. What's the job?"

"Four identical objects hidden, or for a more accurate choice of words, being safe kept, in four different locations. We must retrieve them", she began, her voice fading into a fainter whisper. "We do not have a timeframe on it, not for now at least. However, we do not have much guidance either. And once we have retrieved the first one, we will have absolutely no help."

"What objects?"

"After I tell you, you will be hopelessly, irrevocably, unbreakably bounded to this mission. After I tell you, you'll be fully compromised until its completion. Do you understand?"

"I know what taking on a mission _means_ " he huffed, growing a little too impatient with all this mystifying. Even he knew there was such thing as too much flare.

"It is no ordinary mission, _O,_ " she emphasized again, even if she'd just been the one to get them back on name basis, "which is why I need you to be _absolutely_ certain, so I can be absolutely certain my trust is not misplaced."

"Just _say it already_ "

"Typewriters"

"Typewriters?" he paused. His face scrunched into a frown, and it relieved her. She **needed** him to take this seriously. " _Those_ typewriters? Four of them?"

"Yes. Four typewriters"

"What for?" he asked, his scrunch getting _scrunchier._

They had been taught not to ask this sort of thing. They had been taught that for everything a reason, and the reason would more often than not become clear after the thing. Both lingered in silence for a few moments. Both could imagine why and what for – I must tell you, one of them knew for sure- yet neither of them dared to say it.

It made much more sense to him now, that she had been so _mystifying_. This was risky, bold, and unsound. He would not have gone any differently about it. Well, actually, he would have. What made less sense was that she'd come to **him**. Exceptional as he was, he was still essentially a stranger to her.

They looked at each other, quietly. He narrowed his eyes, and she held his gaze without a flinch. Almost without a _blink_.

"It's strictly need to know, and we needn't know more than that. How many, and where to find the first one," she spoke at last.

He could see it now. She really needn't know much about him. Because if she did, she might grow to care. And if she cared, and they were compromised, chaos would ensue. That was why she couldn't trust her siblings, and had come to him instead. Come think about it, he felt _the opposite_ of flattered.

"How can you be so sure _you_ can trust _me_?" he asked once more, not bothering to whisper. She had tried him. Now he would try her.

"I've seen you in your pajamas" she responded simply, and gave him a smile he had not seen before. It wasn't stiff. It wasn't proud. It wasn't witty. It wasn't mocking. It wasn't secretive. It just _was_. Maybe it was small, he suspected all of her smiles were, but it was sufficient. _She's good,_ he thought. Smiling that smile made her impossible to betray.

"And I've seen you in yours" he smiled back. It wasn't a sneer. It wasn't crooked. It wasn't grim. Maybe it was smug, she suspected all of his smiles were, but it was sufficient. _He'll do_ , she thought.

"It's settled, then. Retrieving the first one will be the easiest part of it all. After the first one goes missing, suspicions will arise" she explained, and he nodded. He nodded and tried his best not to roll his eyes. That was _obvious_. Something, some _one_ , was already missing. Suspicions were risen enough.

With every word of hers the reality of what he was being asked dawned on him, and he found himself thinking that midnight, that the back of an almost unused building, that whispering, that all these protocols weren't enough to disguise it. What _were_ they getting into?

He felt the question and many other words rolling up his tongue when the wind stirred again. Leaves crunched. Windows rattled. — Both knew better than to think it was _just_ the wind. They held their breath, looked at each other, and counted to ten. To Twenty. To thirty. To forty two. To forty seven.

They counted until he could no longer hold his breath, and she followed. _Thud and click_ , she snuffed out their sole light. They counted until ten once again and when their eyes adjusted, they exchanged a look. The first look of trust.

"Library. Tomorrow. Eleven thirty. By the Rob Byre biography," she whispered. He nodded, and they both slid back into the shadows.

There was silence, and all night long there wasn't another noise.

One of them returned to the dormitory.

The other, did not.


	4. Eight Months, two weeks before

It was almost noon. You could tell so not only from the sound of a particularly annoying rooster clock, but because there was not a soul to be seen except for him. Almost noon was the time where no class occupied the library, and no student was supposed to not be in class. Yet there he was. He sat on the floor, leaning against a bookshelf by the 'B' section, flipping the pages of the book he'd chosen to scribble on at random. He had missed class altogether and arrived precisely forty-three minutes early, as to not rise further suspicions from any suspect who might already suspect them, and thus keep tabs on every movement they made throughout the day.

Out of those forty-tree minutes, he had been pondering for around thirty-two. At first it'd been merely because he had nothing better to do. Every second of those thirty-two minutes, his thoughts grew deeper and deeper. Worrisome—and he was not one to worry about almost anything at all.

The unpleasantness of his thoughts started with the simple question 'how hard can it really be to pull off can these heists?', to which the answer he came to was ' _very'_. The typewriters were treasured, rare, and secured. Secured in absolute secrecy. It was followed by 'why should I be the one to do it?' to which the very obvious and only satisfying answer was ' _because I'm the smartest, best ingenious and most qualified to pull it off'_.

'Why was _she_ invited to mission?' was a natural third, which he hadn't responded to yet when 'and why did _she_ get to officially hear about it first?' popped up. Something along the lines of ' _because she must be almost as good'_ was beginning to form as an answer when the voice of reason chimed in with _the_ question: ' **who** officially assigned it?'

Luckily – or very, _very_ unluckily, depending on what side of the story you are interested in hearing – she arrived before his thoughts could go deeper. They greeted each other with the courteous, quiet nod all volunteers had been taught to greet each other with whenever they could act like they knew each other.

"So", his coarse voice quieted to a whisper as he stood up, "do you know _where_ we need to go to retrieve the first you know _what_?"

She narrowed her eyes her ponytail went _flick_ and her nose went _sniff_. So **careless**! Had he forgotten about the established three minutes of idle chatter meant to bore any eavesdropper, or was he just this reckless? Discreetly as she could she glanced around them, cueing him to do the same. She looked for ears and eyes, or means to pry. _Nothing_. Lightly more at ease, she nodded at him and he made a face, his one eyebrow frowned in a way so specifically peculiar it might as well spell out 'impatience'. She would've made an expression that spelled 'annoyance' if she hadn't found it just a little amusing that someone who claimed acting as a skill was so very bad at concealing things.

"Nowhere", she replied softly. "Nowhere too complicated to travel to or access, that is."

The look he gave her now spelled out 'confusion'. She retrieved a napkin from her pocket and handed it to him. Ugh. It had a _poem_ written on it. Raising the right half of his one eyebrow, he looked up at her. She raised both of hers, tilting her head up.

"Lovely compliment on my breakfast this morning" she explained.

FIVE DIRECTIONS TO MY HOUSE

1\. Go back to the grain red hills, where the broken speak of elegance.

2\. Walk up to the hidden door, the long desk stretched against the clouds

3\. Beneath the earth, one of ours writes with the grace of a governor

4\. Blow, blow Red Tail Hawk, your hidden sleeve – your desert secrets

5\. You are there, almost, without a name, without a body, go now. I said three, three like a guitar says six

He inspected the poem in every way he knew how. First, by its literal meaning. It was literally _dull_. Then by the first letter in every line. Go, walk, beneath, blow, you. Still dull. Then by the second, by the third, by every fourth, by every one that marked the appointed number of syllables in a regular quartet (or whatever they were called) and it still seemed meaningless.

He was beginning to feel something anyone without his impressive smarts and skills would've called _embarrassment_ – he called it 'being bored out of his skull by a pointless code' - when she snatched the book away, looking so satisfied with herself, her nose so high and a smirk so smugly hinted in her lips he scrunched his nose at her.

"Go back to the grain _yellow_ hills, walk to the _canvas_ door, an _ant_ writes, I said _five._ Those are the original words. This copy says grain _red_ hills, _hidden_ door, _one of ours_ writes, and _three_ " she explained again, her tone chirping up in pride.

 _What kind of_ _ **bookworm**_ _knows poems by heart?_ he thought indignantly. Though as much as he hated to admit it, her chirping up was contagious. At least contagious enough for him not to say it out loud. He haughtily said "red hidden door isn't _nowhere_ " instead.

"What I gather", she sniffed again, "is that we didn't have any specific location described or given to us because we're already _in_ it. So, we don't have to go anywhere. All we need to do is find a hidden door within the school grounds" – pause for the unsaid 'official and unofficial'– "that we have never seen or used before. It, of course, must be somehow signalled by red and a three"

"… _that_ makes sense" he admitted. "But because the directions are so vague" he conjured a tone and pose so melodramatic she thought, from the little she knew him, he must have been practicing since birth and perfecting at every opportunity, "the search for it will be lengthy, exhaustive and excruciative" – _excruciating_ \- "However! I am willing to embark on this quest all by myself and once _I_ have succeeded, I shall chivalrously guide you to it" he placed his hand on his chest, as if this was the single noblest, gentlest thing anyone had ever said. Maybe he genuinely thought it was so.

" _Really_? And how do you plan on looking for it, exactly?" her eyebrows went up again as she pushed her glasses up her nose in one graceful movement. "Don't tell me. You are going to wander around aimlessly around every inch of the school grounds and open every red door you find until you come across the right one"

"I am going to wander around aimlessly around every inch of the school grounds and open every red door you find until I discover the right one" he said alongside her, beaming with self-importance. Almost the exact same words… unless he was being serious, while she was being entirely sarcastic.

His gleaming expression turned into an instant frown, his gaze sharpening. "Any better ideas?"

Her expression did the same thing, as she suddenly found herself short of them. She remained silent, giving him confirmation.

"That's what I thought", pride balance restored, his ever so smug grin set itself back in place. So did her chin, always up.

The rooster clock cooed softly, indicating fifteen minutes had passed.

"Midnight?" she whispered.

"Midnight" he agreed.

She gave him a firm nod and left as quietly as he had arrived. He flopped back in place, retrieved his book and pen, and resumed his scribbling.

Neither of them went back to class.


End file.
